


Soft Blossoms from the Apple Tree

by Urloth (CollyWobbleKiwi)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Bitches don't know what Eöl would do to get Maeglin back, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Elves and Dwarves getting along, Elves and Dwarves more then getting along, Genderswap, Hand Jobs, Hermaphrodites, Het and Slash, Married Sex, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Tatie is the best, Vaginal Fingering, knowing this fandom Eöl is a warning, long term threesome, married couple being stupidly cute, xeno elf of a sort, yeah Eöl is his own warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollyWobbleKiwi/pseuds/Urloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of fics written for smut prompts on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Index

  * Lady!Maglor and Thranduil - het - adorable morning married sex - no warnings
  * Eöl and Pengolodh - slash - moriquendi revelry - disturbing themes, dubious concent
  * Eöl and Pethras - other (Pethras is a hermaphrodite) -  Eöl will do anything to have his son returned to him - xeno-ish, disturbing themes
  * Durin the Deathless, Tatië, and Tata - het and slash - they enjoy time together in the young world - no warnings




	2. Lady!Maglor and Thranduil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> napoldeinlove sent:
> 
> you know what i am here for but in case you don't I WANT LADY!MAGLOR AND THRANDUIL.

It starts as a nibble to Thranduil’s shoulder blade and a little chuckle when he mutters and twitches. Her fingers are next, skimming up his sides and then back down, ticklish and merry.

She giggles again as he grumbles at her for being a wretch.

"What did I do to earn this harassment?" he mumbles against the pillow, determinedly not looking up.

Her hand slides around his chest, palm spreading over the muscle and her thumb strokes over a nipple like she’s testing a string on her lute. 

"I’m just feeling a little playful this morning," she murmurs against his ear as he finally does take a little more note of what is going on, her thumb eeking out small chords of pleasure. 

"Well carry on," he sighs, shivering as her weight presses against his back, the muscle still hard beneath the softness that three children left behind.

He’d like to get her pregnant again. He bites his tongue to hold down a moan at the thought, then lets the moan free anyway since one of her hands is tapping out a gentle beat on his hip bone as it dances its way down to her groin.

He wants to lay her down on blankets beneath the oldest trees in the forest and thrust as deeply as he can. He wants to watch her body come alight, and hear her gasps become music as she edges closer to her peak and he wants to feel her being unfold before his and mesh tightly as they conceive.

"What are you thinking about?" Maglor murmurs, a hand teasing near the base of his cock.

"You," he answers honestly and she rewards him by gripping the base of him and slowly drawing her fingers up. There’s no slick so she does not grip him. This is play and pleasure, no discomfort is intended.

"You pregnant," he adds, voice hitching when her thumb explores the head of his cock  in slow circles, using the precum forming there to ease the movement, "I want to sire another child upon you, and watch you shake in delight, begging me for more seed and the rest of my cock just before you come, everything of you twined with me."

Maglor nuzzles his shoulder and her teeth leave a stinging impression against the curve of his neck down to his collarbone, “we could do that,” she suggests, breathless, “right now.”

"No," he arches his hips so he has the space to rock against her still circling thumb and the delicate grip of her fingers, "later, in that grove just beyond the old manse in the northern quarter. I want to take you there, fuck you there, impregnate you there."

"Then we’ll do that," she promises, straddled against the back of his thigh and he can feel the heat of her grinding with restless circles of her hips. 

He shudders, breathing deeply through his nose and pushes himself upright with his hand grasping her wrist. It is full of reluctance he draws her hand away from his cock, willing himself not to fall upon her when he pushes her back. No, later, four hours of riding away beneath the oldest trees in Greenwood. He won’t spend himself now. The waiting will make it so much sweeter, give him an easier refraction time as well. 

It’s so hard though and his hand falls between her legs, strokes up against her wet folds repeatedly till her hips are jumping and bucking, and every one of her breaths is a pleading whimper.

His cock is harder then before when he pulls his hand away, a low moan of protest leaving them as he crawls off the bed and stands shakily. 

In this position it would be easy for her to move forward on her hands and knees and take the length hard against his belly and flushing dark red into her mouth. She moves forward to do so in fact and he catches her by her hair and draws her up against his body, rocking against her stomach as he kisses her deep, hard and then with all his strength he pulls away.

"I’ll go arrange someone to watch the children," she promises, watching him make a hurried exit for the bathroom and the cold spring water that can be summonsed with the turn of a antique tap of dwarven origin that was crafted in Doriath.


	3. Eöl and Pengolodh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The result of a misread prompt

It begins with Turgon, desperate for any news of his sister, lifting the ban on leaving and sending him forth.

No it begins with a boy standing at the edges of a forest so ancient and dark that no sunlight ever penetrates it, staring at Pengolodh with a face that is the spitting image of King Fingolfin, as Pengolodh remembers the king from his childhood.

Or perhaps it does not begin until he told a lie about being a linguist and anthropologist, merely wishing to understand all of the cultures he was living amongst, the product of such in fact, half-bred Sindar and Noldor.

Eöl is not the easiest of lords to understand or even get along with but he is welcoming enough when the child-doppelganger of a king begs him to let Pengolodh stay.

(The child didn’t have a name then, because of a cruel moriquendi tradition and so was simply Eolion. There was another name, that no one said when Pengolodh was near, that the boy’s missing mother had given him but Pengolodh has never heard him.

And of said wife he’s never heard a single thing save one day she walked off the paths and into the forest which is something one must never do and they never saw nor heard of her again.)

However it begins, it ends here on his knees with no shame for the hundreds of people all around him, mouth open and jaw aching as Eöl feeds Pendolodh’s hungry mouth his cock.

But then again they’re not standing out right now. There’s no one here that isn’t being buggered or fucked some how, with moans and cries and curses echoing in the space above their heads, an old hall within the keep that long ago had one of the massive dark trees that thrive in Nan Elmoth break through it’s roof. The rest was demolished for safety purposes. It’s a forest within a large room now, and it’s where the Moriquendi who inhabit this treacherous place indulge in carnal, unholy acts in the name of pagan deities.

Eöl strokes his cheeks with red tattooed fingers and the edges of his lips with primitively marked thumbs, hips thrusting with languid precision till Pengolodh feels his limits tested. He never gags though, no, Eöl  does not like that and so never pushes past the limits he knows so well now. Pengolodh feels a flicker of Power slide up his body, dragging like nails along his skin and stopping at his nipples to pluck the rings that weren’t there when he arrived in Nan Elmoth.

Somewhere near by the boy-doppelganger, grown into a Finwë if ever one was a member of that clan, is sitting up with his back against a tree whilst a youth with hair like dragon’s gold rides his cock and moans the name “Maeglin” with all the sweetness of the summer they are celebrating the beginning of. Pengolodh would consider Maeglin’s chosen consort Minyar if he did not know that entire clan went West and that blood is not to be found here in the East. 

A hand tugs his hair, weaves through the loose golden-brown with no ribbon or tie to hold it today. He looks up into Eöl’s face, like his own a meshing of various cultures. Unlike Pengolodh’s though there is no muddying. Each feature plays off the other, sharp and precise and clear in origin, from smokey silver Telerin hair framing a haughty, proud, Tatyarin face and a nose that would fit within the house of Finwe, and the Sindarin smattering of gold across a Noldor’s sapphire iris, lashes thick and dark where they flutter down to brush across a cheek richer than the glow of the amber choker Eöl made for him one Yule, 

"You need more now don’t you Pengolodh?" Eöl asks him and Pengolodh discovers he is so hard his cock is causing a constant drip of precum down his stomach. His hands are digging into Eöl’s thighs, scratching welts over the black lines tattooed around them. Pengolodh nods, sucking harder on Eöl’s dick as the avar pulls slowly away from him.

"On your back," Eöl laughs, "spread your legs. Did you prepare yourself before we began? Good. I’d hate to rip you again."

Yet despite the cruelty of those words, fingers test him, one then two then three. Slipping easily inside him and spreading till he whines and widens the spread of his thighs. 

Eöl pushes those thighs up, and the head of the Lord’s cock teases Pengolodh for a moment before he’s pierced in one sharp thrust and Eöl begins to fuck him hard without any sort of build up.

The trees within the hall are closing in around them and the edges of Pengolodh’s vision cloud with black branches and black leaves and the centre of his gaze is Eöl, and Eöl only. Eöl consumes him, the thick cock fucking him with a gentle viciousness whilst a drop of sweat runs down amber skin and incites Pengolodh to latch his mouth onto the strong neck straining above him to lick-suck-bite a little.

There’s hands on his hips and his voice begging for more use, deeper thrusts, Eöl’s seed, simply Eöl.

Eöl is all there is now and Pengolodh can’t remember why he came to this forest in the first place.


	4. Toil and Trouble - Eöl and Pethras (OC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the prompt I misread  
> greenekangaroo sent:
> 
> I DARE YOU TO DO EOL AND PETHRAS. I DOUBLE DOG DARE YOU.

It was sticky in the tent. Eöl gasped for breath, smothering to death it felt like in the sickly, nervous, nausea inducing atmosphere that rolled over his skin. It felt like the lightning outside that refused to strike, humidity increasing with every mocking rumble of thunder behind the bruised purple clouds above them.

Pethras moved like he did not feel the pressure in the air. His hips were rolling, driving Eöl deeper into his cunt with each press and Eöl wondered if he was being consumed this way. In the harsh flutter of the lamps that managed to keep the atmosphere from completely consuming him the other’s orcish heritage was obvious. The length of and the way that Pethras’ limbs joined to his body wasn’t quite right, and the arch and length of Pethras’ spine was reptilian, every bump available for his fingers to find as they slid restlessly up and down the shaman’s back. It’s easier to see the patterns on the skin now, mottled like orc skin though far lighter with none of the tough leather feel that orcs tend to have.

Then of course there was Pethras’ cock, the length of spines along the underside and the twisted, unelvish mess of flesh below that where male sexual organs became female. It was not like gwegwin physiology. Eöl had mated with many of the dual-sexed elves he knew. This was nothing like that.

Pethras slammed down harder and there was a harsh snap-crackle in the air. The place over Eöl’s heart where Pethras wrote on his skin with his own blood began to heat up. Eöl ground his teeth together at the burning sensation, worse then sunlight, breathing out of his nose. Pethras moaned above him, slamming down harder and faster and the heat got worse, scorching Eol, burning through his skin whilst a unwanted orgasm built in his loins. Every inch of his skin was too warm, and Eöl felt ill.

Pethras shouted suddenly, body clamping down on Eol and milking him of seed. Each pulse of Eöl’s heart caused the bloody writing to burn further into his skin and it was too much, the nausea made him feel as though he’d be ill at any moment.

Instead he blacked out, seeing flames on a horizon and a great searching eye beyond that.

He awakened to petrichor teasing his nose, the air damp with the rain outside and his skin uncomfortably chilled from the drop in temperature. Pethras was still rocking on him, softly panting with his eyes shut and sweat dripping down his face. Eöl shuddered, finding he was still hard, or had been still hard, because a orgasm had just rushed out of him, far less nausea inducing then the last one. Pethras made a small noise of contentment and fell forwards then, crashing to earth like a puppet with no strings left, or one that a uncaring puppeteer up and deserted.

It was for Eöl to roll Pethras off him, clean their bodies and tuck the slumbering Avar into the thin blankets on a crude sleeping palate.

Come the end of the rains Pethras took payment of a chest of gold and packed up the tent he had set in the deepest part of Nan Elmoth where Eöl never allowed visitors to approach. The ground beneath where the tent had been was stripped clean of vegetation, despite Pethras’ visit being only one month, and the usual robustness of Nan Elmoth’s nature. For years afterwards no life entered the barren patch of earth. Deer would divert their frantic sprinting away from the wolves of Nan Elmoth, and the chasing wolves also.

A year to the day of Pethras’ departure Maeglin returned to Nan Elmoth with haunted eyes, pleas for forgiveness on his every second breath, and vows alternating the pleas that he would never leave Eöl again.


	5. Durin/Tatië/Tata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> broadbeam asked:
> 
> Durin the Deathless/Tatië/Tata! :{D

He calls her Givashel, his treasure of treasures. Warm skin beneath his hands that the black marble he chooses to carve her from will never have the life of. Still he carves her, in later years, black marble body and her hair tumbling around her in the same stone. He sets blue diamonds for her eyes and later, older and wiser and more skilled, he wishes he’d made the head hollow so he could set a flame within to give those eyes the luminosity that her gaze has in the darkness. Ever watching and alert and beautiful as the hottest of flames that are white with a feathering of blue.

That is in the future though, right now Tatië is real flesh and real warmth, and her hands and mouth demand Durin’s attention, right now, with no distractions. Which is hard because Tata’s hand is around Durin’s cock currently, slick with oil so that he can drag his grip tightly over the flesh with the right amount of pressure. Tatië nips his fingers, stroking his wrist between her thumbs before her tongue slides over the pads, hot, wet, enough of a sensory buzz that Tata is left to chuckle against his shoulder at how Durin’s cock is throbbing in his grip, twitching with each upwards stroke of Tatië’s tongue.

“How do you want us Durin?” Tata asks him, voice as always low and thoughtful, even in the heights of passion it seems as though Tata is philosophising when he moans. Durin grasps the hand moving over his cock and lets his hand move with it, more for the feeling of Tata’s fine bones beneath his sturdy ones then the increased pressure around his cock. He looks down at the blood darkened column, and his fingers, wider, stronger, and the skin darker, clasping over it and the long pale digits Tata owns. He’ll carve his glory of glories, his Ukrahel, out of white marble from the same mine that produces the black for Tatië. It will require a little more work, he uses left over black marble to create the great snakes of Tata’s hair, and to set his eyes.

The two figures will stand for many years and survive the trip to Khazad Dum.They will gain myth and lore; Maia that Durin the Deathless met at the edge of the world, responsible for lighting the stars each night. Living coils of rock that Mahal sent to guard Durin on his wanderings through the world. Embodiments of the darkness beneath the earth. Messengers from Yavanna who brought with them the etiolated delicacies that grow in the deep and are savoured on feasting days. Never correct save that Durin met them at the edge of the world and that they guard him, late at night when his being wanders back West to mountains where he duels in words and sometimes blows with his creator-father who would have murdered him before he’d breathed his first breath.

A gentle kiss against the corner of his mouth is what concerns Durin now. His statues are unmade, his duels with Mahal are frequent and a fact of life, not something he is remembering with mingled fury and nostalgia.

The days are young yet, and the cheek that Tata slides against Durin’s own is smoother then the newborn children that Durin will bless many times in the years to come. (Life after life Tata’s cheek gets rougher and one day his beard will be as as thick as Durin’s own but these are young days and Tatië and Tata would be considered young by the ways of their later people, even with great grandchildren and great-great grandchildren.)

Durin rubs his cheek against this so smooth, alien cheek, a low rumbling in his chest at the warm ebb and flow of pleasure that almost matches the movement of the water against the lake they are camping beside.

Tatië’s mouth travels to his chest, wet inquisitive lips and tongue making constellation maps that her nails follow.

“I think,” he ponders, “I want you both in a way that I can see you both.”

Tatië’s gaze raises to catch Tata’s and then she moves, laying herself out on the blanket with a smile. Tatië is the tallest of them after all, looming over them both with alien grace and alien mind sometimes. Tatië who is the only one who remembered the face of her and her many siblings’ father and is different in the remembering. Tata moves to lie next to her and their fingers twine together, red on red. Durin will lovingly recreate the tattoos upon their bodies with inlaid garnets. He’ll trace by eye each curve, each stroke of brilliant colour and recreate it to scale and perfect in detail right down to the mottled, dripping patterns over Tatië’s palms.

The statues will be beautiful, but never as beautiful as this.

Tatië hooks her leg over Tata’s waist, revealing her sweet quim for Durin’s inspection, her gaze pointed. He slips his fingers between her folds, pushing deep in a single movement and her eyes slide shut, smile wide as he thrusts in time to the pace that her hips set. He waits till she’s panting, pulls his fingers out, grabs the leg she has over Tata’s waist and puts it over his shoulder so she is wide and pushes his cock into her in a seamless moment that gives her no time to complain.

He sets a steady pace, not as hard as he can manage or would like but they’ve learnt through trial, error, and bruises that his strength is so much more then either of theirs, and that his passions can be damaging if he lets himself go entirely. Tatië gasps with each thrust in and moan sweetly with each with drawl. Her mouth seeks Tata’s and they kiss before him, hands tangling in each other’s hair and eyes sliding closed as they savour their own closeness.

“Durin,” Tatië moans against her husband’s lips, “Durin please, harder tonight.”

How is he to disobey the commands of such a beautiful woman? Even in the future his chivalry will be recorded in lore and legend. He laughs and leans over them both, arms bracing on either side of them. “Are you sure,” he thrusts with a little more strength, enough to jolt her across the blanket.

“Yes,” she arches. Tata leans in and bites her throat, moaning as the movement of Durin’s rutting rubs Tatië against his cock. Durin can taste how much Tata wants to reach down and take himself in hand. They’ve learnt however that though Durin can spill his seed and gladly flip his partner over and take them again without his softening between, Tata is not nearly so hardy and must wait some time between else it is painful for him.

Instead he turns his twitching, anxious fingers to his wife’s sex, and Durin almost roars as tricky fingers circle his cock and form a sheath as he withdraws, stroking him tightly before Durin slams back in and Tata rubs the flesh around his cock till Tatië’s body bears down and a wailing cry escapes her.

“You are a horrible man,” Tatië scolds her husband, cupping his chin and kissing him hard, “if you don’t do more I will be very mad.”

Thank whatever design makes him so durable, Durin thinks, for the way Tata’s fingers slide around his cock again, and one presses against his cock and slides in with the next thrust.

Tata’s thumb crooks, toying with the jewel above where this takes place, and Durin reaps the benefits with Tatië’s convulsive gripping and the desperate jerks of her hips.

There’s no skill Durin’s hands have to capture this moment. His statues are modestly standing together, though naked, hands clasped and smiles directed down at the viewer. And though he makes the statues to try and feel closer to them, it only emphasises his futile wish that his lovers be made out of stone and not out of Eru’s will alone. Here though there is no room for that distance as their bodies surge and Tata’s arm wraps around Durin’s shoulders with surprising strength and drags him down so that he blankets them, broad enough to cover both their sides with Tatië’s leg pushed up further then he knew she had the flexibility for.

Her breathing hot on his lips greets him, then she kisses him, and messily Tata’s mouth presses against that seam of lips, begging until they let him in. Tatie whimpers in that warning way that sets spark to black powder, Durin’s orgasm going from a distant burn to a sudden reality.

Tata’s fingers work faster, and Tatië’s cunt is clamping down so tight and hot around Durin that he’s putting a dangerous amount of strength into his thrusts now, her body rocked against the blanket until she reaches the edge, and her fingers have dug pink welts into Tata’s back.

They crest with a scream, a snarl and a muffled sigh from Tata, yet relieved.

There is silence for a moment, nothing but the waves upon the shore and the stars singing imperceptible music that Tatië has to sing for him to hear. They’re watching him with eyes that glow too brightly, in faces too pointed and too thin for his folk, shoulders too narrow, limbs too breakable and hearts too easily broken.

“I want that twice over,” Tata muses after a moment, nudging his nose against Durin’s cheek until Durin turns his head and gives him a proper kiss, whilst Tatië gorges her hands on golden curls, stroking Durin’s scalp in a pleasing manner.

The slap of his hand on their rumps is loud, as loud as their accompanying laughter as they squirm and Durin pulls from Tatië, slick with her, whilst Tatië reaches for the oil jar, leg still hooked over Tata’s waist, and slips her hand between her husband’s legs, rubbing the inside of her forearm against his cock every so often to make him groan in protest. It is a good night beside this unnamed lake with the stars bright enough to see every freckle on Durin’s body, and the creases around Tata and Tatië’s eyes from joy, however hard the times between. This is not the future, with stone statues imbued with longing, and a exhausting cycle of life and death and life again, waiting,wanting, seeking, finding and then waiting some more.


End file.
